


creek painting

by warboyziri



Series: hansy prompt fics for practice [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, kthnx, muggle au???, something like that, they're in college????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 00:18:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8034634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warboyziri/pseuds/warboyziri
Summary: "I go to a coffee shop every day after class and you’re always there in the back corner sitting alone and you always order the same thing, I tried it and it’s delicious and you look so sad" AU





	creek painting

Ron had snorted, not too subtly, when the girl in front had given her order. “A _berry_ latte? Fucking hipster girls.”

Harry hadn’t said anything. But that was the first time he noticed the girl sitting in the corner of the café—right under the creek painting Harry liked.

Berry latte with almond milk, an extra shot and _dark chocolate_ , was more particularly what the girl ordered. Harry thought it was the worst kind of stress to put on something as simple as _coffee_. But the thing is—he came to the café after class every day. And liked to look at the creek painting as he sipped his coffee and went through his social media. And he had no idea what major this girl had (she definitely wasn’t in his classes), but she was always there. Always in the corner, under the creek painting. Always ahead of him in line, ordering her high and mighty _berry latte with almond milk, an extra shot, and dark chocolate_.

A few weeks into this stupid, not entirely unappealing view of the girl under the creek painting, Harry was starting to get agitated. He felt like he had seen her before—and then realized that it might just be because he saw her every day and was now familiar with her face.

He also realized that she dressed well, but not well enough to look like she put any effort into it. Like she had just picked up the clothes strewn on the floor and put them on—and it just so happened that the clothes were tasteful and probably really expensive.

He also realized that the coffee order was not the only consistent thing—the girl was unfailingly, aggravatingly sad. There were no breaks in her scowl. She never smiled at baristas, never smiled at something on her phone. Harry loved the creek painting because it looked quiet and serene. The girl was _ruining_ it by radiating melancholia.

Then one day, he got late. Hermione had asked him to wait for her while she accosted the chemistry professor for a better grade than the one she had gotten. It took forever. Harry was sure he would miss the girl under the creek painting. Once Hermione was done, he all but carried her to the café in a hurry.

“What’s gotten into you today?” she asked, “Is the café closing or something?”

“No, I just—” Should he tell her? He decided to spill it all. _Someone_ had to tell him what a creep he was being. “There’s this girl. She sits under that creek painting I like. She’ll leave.”

Hermione looked at him like he’d recited an equation out of her textbook or something. “A girl”, she repeated, “Under a painting.”

Harry pulled her along around the block to the café. “Can you please just walk faster? You can tell me I’m being a creep once we get there.”

“You _are_ being a creep”, she replied promptly, speeding up, “and now I’m curious as hell to see who this girl is. But— _Harry_.”

“What?”

“You’ve never done this. This— _chasing_. Do you realize? You’ve never had crushes, or pined after people.”

The moment they reached the door to the café was the moment Harry turned around to retort, “I’m not _pining_ —”

—it was also the moment that the girl came out of the café and walked right past them, her scarves trying to escape with the wind.

And Harry tried not to stare.

And Hermione froze, and tried not to _look_ like she was staring.

And hopefully, if the gods were merciful, the girl didn’t notice that her exit from the café had halted his life.

She rounded the corner and Hermione unfroze before Harry. “That’s not the girl under the painting”, she said.

“That’s the girl under the painting.”

“Oh god”, Hermione croaked, “Oh _god_.”

“What? I like her.”

“You _know_ her”, Hermione said.

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you do.”

“I don’t know her, Hermione, she’s not in any of my classes.”

“We had Homeroom with her for like _eight years_.”

Harry knew her. After a heated conversation that went right up until the line was depleted and it was their turn to order, Harry realised that he knew her. She was Pansy Parkinson. She had bullied Hermione where they were in fifth grade. Hermione’s high school boyfriend Draco Malfoy was her best friend.

Harry’s head hurt. The coffee—a triple shot moccacino duplicated from Hermione’s order—wasn’t helping.

“You don’t still—you don’t _hate_ her, right? Even Malfoy was a bully in school.”

“Of course I don’t hate her. She was Draco’s best friend. We learnt to live with each other after the thing. But that’s not important. _You_ are not going to like her when you finally talk to her.”

“Who said anything about talking to her?”

“What’s your fixation with her, anyway? This is a weird kind of crush. Either that or you’re just scared.”

“Why will— _I’m_ not scared. And it’s not a crush.”

Hermione looked tired of the conversation. Harry knew he did too. “So what you’re saying is that you will continue to gawk at Pansy Parkinson in a coffee shop and never ever actually approach her to relieve the anxiety of all the gawking.”

_Yes. Absolutely_. “Can you please just answer my question?”

“And what is the question?”

“Do you think she’s still a horrible person like she was before the thing?”

That sobered her irritated look. “No, Harry”, she said, with zero scorn, “I don’t think so.”

_—#—_

She wasn’t looking back.

Harry had come to the café the next day determined to find out whether Pansy Parkinson recognized him from school—or if the small altercation at the door of the shop had clicked something in her brain and she too, was now uncomfortably aware of who Harry was. But she wasn’t looking at him. She didn’t glance at him when her gaze wandered away—like _normal_ people do, whether they know someone or not—

Oh god.

He was losing his mind.

_—#—_

Harry was drowning in Hermione’s class notes from when she took Mythic Astrology (and nearly dropped it every week). His table was dripping with papers, his laptop trapped more papers under it. His phone was stopping some more papers from flying to the ground. In this condition, in the middle of revision, Harry’s coffee went cold.

He got up to end the despair, get himself another black coffee so he could struggle through the dream diaries Hermione had collected from seniors. But as he waited in line, his gaze fell on Pansy Parkinson for the first time that day. And she was looking right back at him.

He turned around and ordered a berry latte with almond milk, an extra shot, and dark chocolate.

He thanked the barista and took a sip as he walked back to his table. It was— _amazing_. So amazing that he stopped short and bumped into a chair. So amazing, that he walked right past his table and went to sit at the table under the creek painting.

“This”, he said to Pansy, “is _amazing_.”

She stared at him. For a while. Then leaned forward and looked into his purplish coffee.

“I thought it was too _hipster_ for your tastes, Potter”, she said, not quite scathingly. But not politely either.

“It’s _perfect_ ”, Harry replied, “and I _knew_ you recognised me.”

“No you didn’t”, she said, scrunching up her nose, almost making Harry choke on his perfect coffee. “Granger told you who I was. Before that you were just ogling me for no reason.”

“Not true”, he replied, feeling himself redden. “I just like the painting you sit under. It’s amazing.”

He hadn’t expected her to, but Pansy looked at it. She leaned out, tilted herself from the chair and _looked_ at it.

“Please tell me you noticed it before today. It’s _perfect_.”

The way she gazed at him reflected less hostile and more…wondrous. Harry’s Mythic Astrology funk was nowhere to be seen. “Is everything _perfect_ to you?”

“I mean. It’s either worth it or not. Perfect or bullshit. You know?”

“Yeah”, she said, “Like this coffee is perfect. And your excuse of looking at this painting every day is bullshit.”

He laughed. Well—he _started_ to laugh. Then he remembered he wasn’t supposed to laugh at himself. Not in front of Pansy Parkinson.

“Well, I’m glad I ordered this. Thank you for bringing this in my life.”

“You’re welcome, Potter. Now kindly stop staring at me every day.”

“Can I sit here, instead? There will less staring if I’m within hearing distance. Promise.”

She stared again. “I thought—after Granger told you who I was that you—”

“—I can’t. Do that. There’s this thing.”

“What’s the thing?”

“—the thing is. This painting is perfect. It’s peaceful and quiet and soothing. I mean, I’m not in love with it. But this café is super close to campus and I come here every day after class and the existence of this painting makes the trip a lot better. But you sit here, with your delicious coffee. And you look—you’re just in a bad mood all the time.”

He knew she was offended. But she knew he was right. “That’s just my face”, she said, a lifeless effort at humour.

Harry said nothing. Pansy squirmed. Glanced away. Then looked back at him. “I’ll just—I’ll _sit somewhere else_ if you—”

“—or you could just not be sad. That’s also a possibility.”

She took a deep breath—and didn’t leave his gaze as she did it. Like she somehow couldn’t believe he was there, saying those things. “That is a wildly oversimplified suggestion.”

He could tell she meant it. “Let’s complicate it. I have a Mythic Astrology mid-term in two days. I bet I can make you smile before that.”

“Really”, she deadpanned, “Making the girl who attempted to give you over to the militants in a hostage situation in our school is what you want your life to be about.”

The answer was yes. “Just let me bring my stuff here, Parkinson. If you’re not too overwhelmed by a local celebrity showing interest in you, of course.”

He almost won the bet right then and there. But she persevered. They finished their hipster coffees, stared at each other from time to time, and got up to leave together. Harry snagged her hand to stop her from walking away from him and planting a long, lingering kiss on her lips on the pavement.

And the bet was won.

**Author's Note:**

> I _might_ take requests if you have any okthanksforreading


End file.
